My victorious bullets, not anymore
do pierce through, parting depths
of once so tamed, emotion-patching,
never my wretched, tender flesh;
the fogs, their clear of monochrome
parade of perils under pilgrims,
don't shed no single drop of past
disgrace buried in frozen crismson;
maybe deceased are my senses,
just how deceased gone daydreaming
like rotten future and burnt yesterdays,
no promised sober blasted streaming;
maybe encrypted are memories
be played and hung for long regrets,
either for strolling, headless gratitude
no sorrow-feeding soul forgets;
yet, contentment under mercy,
though mercy never seals contentment
of present's static, running carriage
into some nowhere-phased enslavement;
enslavement--never nothingness
upon liberal, angel brothers
beneath archs of patriarchy,
still no commitment ever governs;
oh, what emptiness I paid worship
besides fever life compliance,
what broken promise still I'm holding
when my soul, be love-defiant;
but bordered, no indecisive
only emptied of life sidelines
why need presence over perceiving
what's long existent--freeing fine lines.
